“Have some soup,” I suggest, setting dinner before him.
“Bubble bubble, toil and trouble.”
“No dear. Double, double, toil and trouble. The witches were brewing double trouble for Macbeth, not bubble trouble. No Bazooka Joe in the old days.”
“Fire burn and cauldron bubble.”
He reaches for a spoon and throws the napkin to the floor. He clutches the spoon in his fist like a club and shovels hot soup into his mouth. It dribbles down his bearded chin, onto his ruffled shirt and he wipes it away with a rough swipe of his sleeve.